


When You Laugh, I Forget About the Sky

by Steve



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Fluff, I wrote this in 2014 when Korrasami College AUs were actually rare?, Korra & Bolin are Too Pure and Good for this world. They totally signed up for this., Mako & Asami are angsty broody dorks w/ parental issues, Pining, Platonic Masami
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 17:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4229817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steve/pseuds/Steve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asami Sato: top of her class, technological genius, fabulous, ass-kicking heiress, and hopelessly in love with her ex-boyfriend’s current girlfriend.</p>
<p>Yeah, she’s pretty much screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damn. Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in December 2014, when Korrasami College AUs were actually hard to come by. Obviously, times have changed.
> 
> Anyways here's Wonderwall.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part I: A prologue, of sorts. Asami meets Girl. Girl is ex-boyfriend's super endearing girlfriend. Asami has many regrets.

Asami’s world comes to a standstill when she meets the girl’s eyes for the first time. It’s predictable, it’s cheesy, and it is completely terrible.

_Damn. Fuck._

It is autumn—first term of Asami’s junior year—and she is fresh out of a thermodynamics lecture (the readings are heavy, tucked away in her laptop bag) and sitting at a campus pizzeria because somehow she’s become _that_ person who still has lunch dates with her ex and her ex’s younger brother (who are always, unfailingly, five minutes late), when _she_ shows up, attached to Mako’s arm, laughing at one of Bolin’s jokes.

And her world stops. Her world, always busy, always racing through class and labs and meetings and internships and personal projects that never seem to be enough, screeches to a silent, unsettling halt. It’s not really the colour of the girl’s eyes (a jolting, electric blue) or the way they appear on the verge of breaking into laughter (even when she catches Asami’s gaze and tries to compose herself, extricate herself from Bolin’s infectious good humour) but more so the light in them, the look in her eyes and her lips and the slope of her shoulders and toned arms that makes Asami itch to open her up, dismantle her and figure out her story and the numbers that make her tick.

A small, petulant voice—the spoiled heiress part of Asami—immediately goes, _I want her._

The logical, analytical part of Asami replies,  _Well. You're screwed._

Mako clears his throat. The three of them have taken a seat in the booth Asami had saved for them (for _two_ of them), with the new girl—for some infuriating, inexplicable reason—slipping into Asami’s side of the table, her leg bumping into and settling against Asami’s on the bench.

Mako says, “Hey, Asami.”

Mako says, “This is Korra, my girlfriend. I—uh—hope you don’t mind that I brought her along.”

Korra shoots her a small, charming, lopsided smile. She’s sitting so close to her that Asami can feel Korra’s roaring body heat against her thigh, her side, her shoulder. Korra’s eyes sparkle.

Korra says, “S’up.”

_Damn. Fuck._

Asami smiles. Poised. Controlled. “It’s no problem at all. Nice to meet you.”

Internally, all systems burst to flames. _Damn. Fuck. Why did it have to be_ her?

* * *

 

Asami never stopped being friends with Mako. Their relationship—their fluttery, floaty, freshman-year relationship—didn’t work out, had ended in lodged throats and a quiet understanding, but it had been a relationship that included her hand steady on the small of his back as he talked about his parents, his fingers combing gently through her hair as she talked about _her_ parents, and falling asleep together on his ratty studio apartment couch on the summer nights she couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a house with her father. That wasn’t really the kind of relationship they could just walk away from, so neither of them tried.

She almost wishes now, though, that she did try, that she walked far away and found some new friends who cared less and weren’t as much of a headache. She confides this to Bolin, the evening after she meets Korra.

He chokes on his drink. “What? Why?” He frowns, glances up at her living room ceiling, apparently finding an answer there because his face suddenly lights up in a teasing, delighted smirk. “Oh, no. Is this about Korra? Don’t tell me—is _the_ Asami Sato actually _jealous?_ ”

Asami sniffs and glares straight ahead at the television screen, at the inane decade-old romantic comedy Bolin had picked off Netflix. Oh, she’s jealous. She’s seething, burning green with envy to the tips of her perfectly manicured nails. He’s right about that. But mostly, overwhelmingly, she is filled with thick, preemptive guilt.

Bolin flicks a popcorn kernel at her. “Hello? Earth to Asami?”

She sighs, picks the popcorn out of her hair and aims it at Bolin’s mouth. Casually, resignedly, she says, “Korra’s going to fall in love with me.”

He chokes, for the second time. “What?” His eyes widen, then narrow in suspicion. “Why?”

“I like her. Too much.”

Bolin groans, slapping a hand against his forehead, all suspicions confirmed. Movie forgotten, Asami shrugs at him and tries her best to look apologetic. He shakes his head. “No, no, no, no, no. Asami! No!”

She nurses her screwdriver as he freaks out at her. Bolin mixed the drinks this time, and he always uses too much orange juice.

“I’m sorry,” she says eventually. She’s not lying.

“Asami. Asami.” Bolin reaches over to put a firm hand on her shoulder, nearly tipping over the bowl of popcorn between them in the process. His tone is stern. “You’re not gonna steal Mako’s girlfriend. Okay?”

She sighs again. “I don’t need you to tell me that.” Of course she doesn’t _want_ to steal Mako’s girlfriend. Doesn’t _plan_ to. “I just—Korra. She’s interesting.”

“No! No, Asami! She’s not interesting!”

“I’m not going to try to seduce her!” She softens, gives Bolin a sad, reluctant smile. “You know I care too much about him to do that.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then relaxes, his shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I know. I was kidding. Mostly.” Bolin’s known Asami for nearly two years and known Mako his whole life, and he understands more than anyone the nuances in their relationship-turned-friendship.

“Besides,” she says lightly, “we shouldn’t just assume I _can_ seduce her. Does she even like girls?”

“I dunno. I mean, does it even matter, Miss Prodigy Beauty Queen?” At her resigned shrug, he leans back, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “I think so, though? She kind of hit on Opal the other day, in that ‘if we weren’t both already spoken for’ kinda way, you know?”

Asami nods, carefully filing that piece of information away for later analysis. Then, she immediately chastises herself. No. No analysis. _No more thinking about your ex-boyfriend’s gorgeous girlfriend who you’ve only met today, and how amazing it’d be to see the stars reflected in her eyes as you sit together on the hood of your car after a romantic 2 AM drive—_

She lets out a slow, shaky breath, her head sinking into her hands. Bolin guesses the direction of her thoughts, grinning and shaking his head as he says, “I’ll go pour you another drink, yeah?”

* * *

 

Asami had known, of course, that Mako was finally seeing someone. After all, they were friends—are friends—and there wasn’t (isn’t) any point in hiding their love lives from each other. Up until the previous summer, though, neither of them really had much of a love life to speak of.

(A string of one-night stands, they decided, did not count as a love life.)

“It’s not that serious yet,” he had said that evening in August, when he first told Asami that he’d met someone. “And I kind of just want to see where this goes first. I want you to meet her, but—I just really don’t want it to be awkward.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be happy with whenever you feel ready to introduce us,” she’d said, smiling gently. “And it won’t be awkward. I promise.”

_This is awkward,_ Asami notes, shoving back a grimace. _This is so awkward._

Korra glances at her over her shoulder and frowns. “Hey, you okay? You look kind of constipated, or something.”

“I’m fine,” she says shortly.

_Crap. Did that sound snappy?_ Asami kicks herself internally. Agreeing to go on a morning jog alone with the girl she had resolved less than thirty-six hours ago to _not_ seduce (and, ideally, _not_ fall in love with) was probably amongst her weaker decisions, she admits. She had spent the first eleven minutes trying to remain three strides ahead of Korra (in a noble attempt to avoid staring at Korra’s outrageously toned arms or ridiculously tight running shorts) but, despite Asami’s advantage in height, Korra (the stupid, cheery, tireless _jock_ ) easily matched her pace. Then Asami decided to let Korra take the lead for a while, a choice she’s definitely regretting.

In movements too smooth and too dorky and endearing to possibly be fair or legal, Korra twirls around to face Asami, and begins jogging backwards. She chews on her lower lip as worry etches itself between her eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” says Korra, the words ripping Asami’s gaze away from Korra’s lips. “Did I sound stupidly rude just now? It’s just, I haven’t really gotten the hang of the whole ‘talking-to-people-without-making-a-total-ass-of-myself’ thing yet.”

“No! No.” Asami shakes her head, feels her facial muscles relax, loosen. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Really.” She smiles when this seems to relieve Korra. “ _I’m_ sorry. I’ve just been acting weird.”

Korra turns around to resume running properly, but slows her pace to fall into stride next to Asami. She tilts her head at her. “Why?”

_Because I’m attracted to you, and that is nine flavours of Not Good._ “Ah—did Mako tell you that he and I used to date?”

“Oh.” Korra skids to a halt and, wary, Asami follows suit. They are standing alone, just the two of them, on the track across the street from Korra’s apartment complex. Korra ducks her head, lifts a hand to fiddle with her hair. ( _A nervous habit,_ Asami observes and logs away.) “Actually, he did tell me,” she admits. “It’s actually why I asked you out this morning.”

Asami tries (unsuccessfully) to ignore the suggestive phrasing. “Oh?” she asks, arching a brow. For some reason, she’d been under the impression that Korra hadn’t known, that Mako hadn’t told her. The surprise registers idly in the back of her mind, as the rest of her is watching the corners of Korra’s lips lift in a small, guilty smile. She longs to reach out and lower Korra’s hand from where it fidgets with the tips of her hair, to cradle Korra’s fingers and pick out the little bits of dirt she can see stuck in Korra’s nails.

“Yeah.” Korra takes a deep breath, apparently steeling herself. “I mean—I just really don’t want us to be on bad terms or anything, because you seem really cool and Mako obviously cares about you—but, not like, in a romantic way, I mean, I get that!—and I just don’t wanna be the jerky, jealous girlfriend in this scenario, you know? Like, I like you and I like Mako and I just—you know—want to make sure that…?” Korra swallows, offers an embarrassed, sheepish grin. “That we’re good, I guess?”

Asami smiles. Bites back a laugh. “Korra,” she says, and the syllables feel good, feel _right_ , rolling off her tongue and even though this isn’t the first time she’s said her name (she’d said it to Bolin, and she’d said it to herself, testing it out, cautiously turning over each letter in her mind), this is the first time she’s said Korra’s name to _Korra_. And it’s surprisingly nice.

“Korra,” she says again, still smiling, still suppressing fond laughter. “We’re good.”

Korra grins, a real (adorably lopsided) grin, and Asami idly wonders how her own name would sound when hovering in the space between Korra’s lips.

* * *

 

After that, they’re friends, and it’s not as terrible and painful as Asami thought it would be.

(It is plenty terrible and painful, but Asami’s decided she wants to make more bad decisions.)

* * *

 

Korra, like Bolin, is a sophomore. Korra, like Bolin, started out as a kinesiology major but, unlike Bolin, has switched to peace and conflict studies. A kind of fiery heat radiates from Korra’s eyes and lips and skin, and makes her seem like a confrontational person, which she is, sometimes. Korra has adorable puppy eyes and a less-adorable-but-very-important-to-her actual white husky who she had to leave at home with her parents (something Korra is very heartbroken over). Korra played rugby in high school, doesn’t drink, dislikes the dark, and is almost as skilled an MMA practitioner as Asami (but they are both slightly out of practice and so promise to work out together). Korra, unlike Asami and Mako, genuinely enjoys romantic comedies.

Asami, without meaning to, makes note of all of this, systematically logging each scrap of information she learns about Korra in the very back of her mind, where they rest and radiate a faint, buzzing warmth in the moments between laughs, in the lulls of conversation when Asami is once again trapped by the light of Korra’s eyes.

* * *

 

Asami Sato is so, so screwed.

 

 


	2. Tropicana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part II: Asami tries really hard to a) keep her cool, b) not fall in love with Korra, and c) move the heck on. She fails on all counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I'm the slowest updater ever. Good luck, Asami.

Of the four of them, Asami lives the farthest from campus. She’s also the only one whose dad lives in the city but—well, she lives with him in the summer sometimes, when he’s not being a stubborn jerk and she’s not feeling stubbornly vindictive. Otherwise, Asami rents a comfortable one-bedroom that is approximately a 34-minute walk, or a 12-minute bike ride, or a 7-minute drive from the university.

Conversely, Mako and Bolin’s studio and Korra’s apartment are both just a couple of blocks away from campus. As a result, Asami’s place, despite being the most spacious, rarely plays host to their hangouts. The four of them get together to play board games twice a week, and Asami gets used to it all, to leaning her face into the nest of cushions on Korra’s couch as Bolin tries to convince her she’s playing Chinese checkers wrong and Korra teases Mako for thinking so hard about his every move. She can almost pretend that Korra has always been with them, that she’s known Korra for so long and has gotten so used to her dazzling laughter that it doesn’t startle Asami every time she hears it. She can pretend that Korra’s couch pillows don’t _smell_ like Korra, that she’s not such a pathetic, smitten schoolgirl that she has to bite back a fond smile from just _sniffing_ Korra’s _sofa._

She can never fully commit to this illusion, however, because as soon as Korra’s sparkling, teasing eyes shift from Mako’s face to Asami’s, and she’s sneaking Asami a sly, conspiratorial grin, Asami’s logic and Asami’s self-delusion and Asami’s maturity all shut down, and all that’s left is heiress Asami going _want, want, want._

The only times Asami’s friends all hang out at her place occur whenever they remember that she is the only one of them who owns a Wii. They then inevitably brave the 7-minute drive in Bolin’s creaky, crappy, secondhand convertible (the only new thing about the car is its bright yellow paint job; Asami offered to work on the poor thing but Bolin insisted that she would just wind up replacing every part including its _heart_ and _soul_ ) to reach the promised land of Mario-Kart.

(Asami can’t figure out why, despite owning a state-of-the-art home entertainment system complete with Blu-Ray, surround sound and a PlayStation 3, her apartment’s main appeal factor as far as her friends are concerned remains Mario-Kart, but, well—whatever makes them happy.)

One evening, two weeks before midterms, instead of the take-out that is usually expected whenever they hang out at Asami’s, Mako cooks a real honest-to-God dinner for them.

“I think I may fall in love with you again,” Asami tells him at the dining table, her stomach and heart filled with meatloaf and mashed potatoes. “I’m not joking.”

Korra snickers, Bolin chokes on his food, and Mako glares at Korra (Asami can sense the underlying fondness) and complains, “As my girlfriend, you could at least look a little bothered by that.”

Korra shrugs and reaches for a third helping. “Sorry, dude, but I’m impressed too.” She winks at Asami over a heaping plate of potatoes. “I mean, you used _Asami’s_ kitchen. I’m surprised you didn’t choke on dust.”

“Hey,” she says, haughty. “Rude much.”

Bolin grins. “But totally right.”

After dinner, they procrastinate cleaning up. The boys start on another round of Mario-Kart, while Asami takes Korra out to the balcony.

“Wow,” comments Korra. “Sweet view.”

“Yeah.” It really is; they’re sixteen storeys up in the heart of downtown Republic City, after all. Asami grew up on city lights and sounds of traffic, but she wonders if Korra ever misses home.

As though reading her mind, Korra leans her arms on the balcony railing and smiles down at the busy roads. “You know,” she says, “when I first came to the city, I was seriously so impressed at, like, the _number_ of cars here. I was like, ‘how is there even any room on the streets to walk?!’”

Asami laughs. “It’s actually easier to walk sometimes. Traffic.”

“Good, ’cause I can’t drive anyway.”

“I know, and that still astounds me.” Asami glances down at their elbows almost touching on the railing. They’ve grown pretty close, in just a month, but she is still hesitant to touch Korra when it’s not necessary. She’s afraid that if she gets too close to Korra’s warmth, she’ll do something stupid like spontaneously combust or fall in love. In that order, probably.

With that in mind, Asami reaches over and jabs Korra playfully in the shoulder ( _what the fuck_ ), and says, because she is totally dumb, “I could teach you sometime. Help you get your license, if you want.”

Korra, at least, smirks it off and does not look weirded out. “You sure about that, princess? I am really, _really_ not a good driver, and I don’t think I can afford to pay both our hospital bills.”

“Please. I’d pay my own.” Asami can’t quite squelch that little thrill she gets in her gut whenever she’s the one to make Korra laugh, but whatever. “And trust me, I could teach you. Never underestimate a Sato. Also, like, believe in yourself, I guess,” she adds as an afterthought, smiling sweetly.

Korra laughs again, and punches _her_ in the shoulder this time. Asami isn’t sure whether she wants to say _“ouch”_ or _“thanks.”_

“You’ve got midterms,” says Korra, very efficiently bringing Asami crashing back down to Earth. “Sucks, but I can’t really pull you away from that, I’m guessing.”

“Ugh, god, you’re right.” She slumps at the reminder. (In the back of her mind, she notes a small, unshakable sense of rejection—which is entirely stupid because it’s not like Korra doesn’t want to spend time with _her_ , or that it was even supposed to be a date, or anything. _Stupid._ ) “Thanks for the buzzkill.”

“Hah, sorry.” Korra smiles, bumps their shoulders lightly together. “You’ll handle it, though.”

“I know,” she admits, unabashed, “but it’s still going to be a headache.” Asami’s trying to complete a double degree in mechanical engineering and business administration with a minor in computer science in the span of four years because—because, well, she’s Asami Sato, and she can.

Korra shakes her head. “Jeez. I don’t know how you find time to sleep.”

“I don’t. Mako lectures me about it.”

“As he should,” Korra mutters. “You know, Sato, you don’t get your sleep cycle in order, you’ll never catch up to me.”

_Ah, Korra,_ she doesn’t say. _Don’t you know I can never outrun you either way?_ Instead she smiles again, willfully ignores how the city lights reflected in Korra’s eyes look almost kind of like stars, and says, “We should probably be heading back inside. I need to clean up the disaster zone.”

“Yeah, gotcha.” Korra backs off and stretches, turns towards the warm light of Asami’s dining/living room. “I still have to kick Bolin’s ass at _Brawl_ a couple more times.”

“A worthy pursuit.”

They’re about to slide open the screen door when Korra stops her, grabs her arm. She’s looking up at Asami, and there’s something almost resembling nervousness in the way she bites her lip.

“Hang on,” she says. “It’s just—well, I do have a bike. But I kinda messed it up. The chain snapped.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. So, maybe after our midterms—”

“I can fix it up for you,” Asami says quickly, before she can second-guess herself, “if you’d like.”

“Yeah,” says Korra. She smiles crookedly at her. “That’d be really cool of you.”

“Good. Okay, then.”

They go back inside, finally, and Asami feels totally, entirely stupid for how hard she smiles to herself.

-

Asami is halfway through washing the dishes from dinner when Mako staggers into the kitchen, carrying a tray heavy with cups, crumb-crusted dessert plates, and her favourite clunky ceramic teapot.

“Korra and Bolin want more tea,” he explains.

They share an empathetic eye roll, and Asami grins. “Let me help you with that.”

Asami starts the water boiling in the electric kettle as Mako rinses the plates and teacups. She grabs a rag and then they easily settle into familiar routine—he washes, she dries. Mako handles Asami’s tea set even more gingerly than she would have, she notes, and he slips her a soft half-smile as he thumbs the swirling flowery designs on the teapot. The set had belonged to her mother. She is touched (but not particularly surprised) that he remembers.

“It feels good to be hanging out with you,” she says, surprising herself. “I feel like I don’t see you very often anymore. You’re always spending time with Korra.”

Mako gives her one of his trademark stares. Calm, steady, intense. “Interestingly enough,” he says, “I could say the exact same thing about you.”

_Uh-oh. CODE RED. System error. Abort operation!_

The better, more righteous part of Asami mind-flashes to a broken bike and is flooded with a funny sense of shame. “Mako,” she starts, “I—”

He shakes his head, glances back at the dishes. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I know. Ah—Bolin told me, like, a week after you met her.”

_Oh._

“But honestly, I would have figured out something was up anyway. I see the way you look at her sometimes.” Suddenly, bizarrely, he looks like he’s about to laugh. “And I’m personally _very_ familiar with your ‘turned-on and horny’ face, you know.”

“Oh my _god_.” On instinct, she swings her towel at him. He flicks dishwater at her in retaliation, and they grin madly at each other for a few moments until she comes to her senses and inevitable, familiar guilt bubbles up to her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she says, staring him in the eye. “You should be mad at me.”

“I can’t get mad at you for _having feelings_ ,” Mako argues, frowning. “ At least, I don’t think I can?” He pauses, gets his bearings. “Uh, right, that’s not the point. I mean, it’s not like—like I _own_ Korra or something.” He shakes his head again, and then smirks. “Besides, Korra can take care of herself.”

Asami sniffs, haughty, and arches a brow at him. “Are you implying anyone can resist my womanly wiles?”

“Oh, we’re all tougher than you can imagine.” His smirk widens. “Or, maybe, you’re losing your touch, Miss Sato.”

She gasps in mock (okay, half-genuine) indignation, and he elbows her which prompts another quick shoving match involving dishtowels and soapy water. Over their (rather uncharacteristic) shrieks and laughter, they can hear Bolin and Korra obliviously playing Wii in the next room.

They settle down, and Mako’s staring at her again.

“I’ve missed this,” he says quietly. His eyes are warm, serious. “Let’s not lose this.”

“Okay,” says Asami. “Let’s not.”

-

The next day, Mako texts her.

**Mako (11:08 AM):** _it really is fine_  
**Mako (11:09 AM):** _Really._  
**Mako (11:10 AM):** _i’m just as hot and smart as you anyway….._  
**Asami (11:10 AM):** _no you aren’t.  
_ **Mako (11:10 AM):** _Oh it is on._

-

Midterms come and go, complete with packed, unnaturally-productive-for-a-20-year-old all-nighters, lots of eye twitching and three paper cuts, and two nights meant for studying instead poured into some of Asami’s many pet projects (it was her way of blowing off steam—from her heavy course load, and from spending an aching amount of time with Korra’s eyes and voice and biceps during their morning workouts).

“You’re so _lucky_ you’re a makeup whiz,” Bolin tells her. “Otherwise the six-ton bags under your eyes could really, like, splotch up your saintly image.”

They are sprawled out on his couch again, sharing one of their Netflix movie nights while Opal’s in Zaofu visiting family and Korra and Mako are on a date to celebrate the completion of midterms.

“Very funny,” says Asami, keeping her eyes trained on the stupid superhero movie Bolin picked.

“Hey, zero judging here! I’ve no doubt you could sweep anyone off their feet even with all nine circles of hell on your face.”

“Joke’s on you, but my body’s been building up an immunity against such mortal responses to sleep deprivation since age 12.”

“That,” Bolin remarks, tossing a cheesy popcorn kernel at her so he’s free to wag his finger disapprovingly, “is probably definitely unhealthy.”

“Oh, don’t be a fuddy-duddy,” complains Asami, daintily flicking popcorn out of her hair. “Mako’s rubbing off on you, finally.”

“Nope, Opal is. She’s all about healthy living.”

“Right.” Asami doesn’t snort (because she is a _lady_ ) but she is sorely tempted to as she looks around at their spread of microwave popcorn, root beer, and (empty) candy wrappers. “Healthy living.”

“Hey, post-midterms indulgence. You did this with me.” At her conceding shrug, he falls silent for a few beats and they both go back to the movie. Then, out of nowhere, he says, “I’ll bet you Korra’s a health nut. That girl is _fit._ ”

“Yeah,” is her rather unimpressive reply.

“I’m athletic,” is her next vague, slightly defensive comeback.

Then, it slips out: “I punched her in the shoulder the other day. Casually.”

Bolin nearly falls off the couch, clearly overwhelmed by the abrupt and powerful surge of unadulterated glee at Asami’s expense. “Like,” he says, “in a playful ‘ _good one, buddy’_ sort of way?”

Asami nods. “We were out on my balcony.”

“Oh my god.”

Asami shrugs. What can you do, right?

“Like, a _just palling around_ punch in the shoulder. A _playful jab._ A staple of the _fond bromance with homoerotic subtext_ routine.”

Bolin’s clearly on a roll, so Asami waits patiently for him to exhaust himself, determined to ride out his silent, shaking laughter. Eventually, he does calm down.

“Dude,” he says gravely, “that is so awkward.”

“Yeah.” Asami makes a face, already having accepted it. “I’m great at seducing, and I’m great at befriending, but it turns out I’m not so great at being friends with someone I want to seduce.”

“No, no. You’re doing great,” he assures her in that quick, supportive, Bolin-y way. “I mean, she loves you. Um, but not like, she _loves_ you, but—I’m sure—I just—you’re an awesome friend to have, okay? I bet even Korra can see that already.”

“Sure.” Her smile is small but genuine. “Thanks, Bo.”

“Anytime.”

Several long minutes of silence pass in relative peace. As Mark Ruffalo is Hulking out (again) and Bolin is visibly starting to drift off, Asami absently says, “She punched me back.”

Bolin snorts. “I can hear the wedding bells already.”

-

Korra is _vibrant._ She is bursting with uniquely raw energy, is always in motion but not at all in the same way that Asami is (Asami is always busy, always rushing to someplace she’s got to be) but in a way that says she is so, so alive and that there’s no place she’d rather be but here, in this moment, vibrating in her own skin. Korra rides out her feelings like waves. Scowls lock into the lines of Korra’s face in a way that would never look natural on Bolin. Anger and sulkiness and dark, hot flashes of fury live as easily on Korra’s lips and in her eyes as her electrifying, lopsided grin.

And she smiles, like, a _lot_ , and it might kind of steal Asami’s breath away, if it weren’t for the fact that Korra’s effortless joy is the kind that shares its energy with those around her, radiating life and colour instead of draining it away. Korra doesn’t hold back—at least not in the important ways. She laughs hard and loud at movies, and she lets her voice break when she’s upset. She finds it difficult to just walk on grass; she is constantly compelled to run through it, to throw herself into cartwheels on it, to launch herself at Bolin’s back or to sling Mako over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry and run laps until they fall laughing to the ground and she gets grass stains on her pants. And something must compel her, too, to grin up at Asami from under Mako’s weight, to beam at Asami and squint her eyes like she’s staring into the sun, because that’s what Korra does and Asami has to stop her heart from leaping into her throat when she grins back.

And there’s so much that Asami doesn’t understand. Korra’s carefully gentle hands, her measured, righteous anger, the warmth she exudes when she babysits her landlord Tenzin’s children—so many hints to a life that Asami has not lived, and it’s always been in Asami’s nature to itch to understand. Asami doesn’t know every inch of Korra, and it scares her sometimes how badly she wants to.

-

“Here it is. My very own hunk of junk.” Korra grandly flails her arms around, gesturing with a combination of pride and fond disparagement.

“Nice ride,” Asami says sweetly, setting her toolbox down next to Korra’s cobweb-covered bicycle.

“Jerk.” Korra makes a face at her. “She may not be some fancy Future Industries robocar, but she’s served me loyally for years, all right?”

“ _‘Robocar’_?”

“Shut up.” In spite of her words, Korra is grinning. She flops herself down on the cement floor, folding into a cross-legged position and propping her chin on her fist to watch Asami crouch next to the bicycle, inspecting it. Asami senses a funny sort of contentment radiating from her, as though there’s no other way Korra would rather spend a Saturday morning than watch her boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend fix her crappy bicycle.

She doesn’t look back at Korra, keeping her focus on the bike as she idly asks, “What’re you so happy about?”

“Oh. Oh, nothing.” Korra coughs, a sound suspiciously similar to a hastily stifled giggle. “I mean. I just. You’re wearing _jeans_.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me wear jeans, Korra.”

“They have holes in them! And your outfit’s not colour-coordinated!” She says this in the same tone of voice you might hear someone say, _“You got me a Mercedes for Christmas!”_

“Changing a bike chain is a dirty job.” Asami casually flicks her ponytail over her shoulder, rolling up the sleeves of the oversized oil-stained sweatshirt she stole from her dad years ago. “A dirty job I’m doing as a favour to _you_ , by the way.”

She turns to Korra, with the intent to arch a brow and shoot her a wry, teasing smile, but somewhere along the way she stumbles because Korra’s totally delighted grin framed by her tousled Saturday-morning hair is really, really unfair, and Asami is really, really weak.

Korra shrugs, apparently oblivious, and says, “Well, somehow you still manage to look like the cover girl of _Mechanic Chic_ or something, so there. We’re even.”

“I fix your bike but I still look hot, so we’re even?”

She grins wider. “Exactly.”

Asami considers, and then nods. “Sounds fair.”

After a few moments, Asami’s pulling out her multitool and the replacement chain she bought for Korra, and Korra’s still sitting there cross-legged, watching her contently. She can’t remember the last time she’s seen Korra stay still for so long.

“You’re just gonna sit there and bear witness?”

“Erm.” Korra rubs her neck. “Yes?” Then, her eyes light up, and she springs into a standing position. “Wait! No. I can help!”

“Oh. Please don’t.”

Korra rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry, Sato, I’m not gonna even try to come near your magic robo-wrenches.”

“I literally need like one tool to fix this, and it’s not a wrench—”

“Whatever,” calls Korra, and she sprints out of the garage.

She sprints back in about eight minutes later, a tray of cookies and lemonade on her arm. From the sweat beading at Korra’s hairline, Asami strongly suspects that she ran up the stairs to her fifth-floor apartment and ran back down instead of taking the elevator, in which case—whoa. Korra is _fit_ , and really talented at preparing a large amount of lemonade in a short amount of time.

_Don’t stare,_ Asami commands herself. _Ooh, look at the pretty broken bike instead!_

“Korra, that’s very thoughtful but…” She wiggles her black grease-stained fingers at her, but otherwise keeps her focus trained on her work.

“Come on, Asami. I thought you were a problem solver.”

So, she spends the next six minutes feeding Asami snacks and giving her lemonade in an 800-millilitre blue sippy cup, and Asami gets the ridiculous sense that Korra’s kind of like a pumped coach (or an over-enthusiastic mother) shoving oatmeal cookies into Asami’s mouth before a big boxing match or something.

“You’re ridiculous,” Asami laughs, the third time Korra runs up to her apartment and comes back, this time bearing a bowl of grapes and an iPod loaded with outdated pop music.

“I’m being an accommodating host,” Korra shoots back. “And we missed our run this morning.”

“Wow, Korra. Sorry to kill your gains.”

Korra spends a considerable amount of time after that giggling into her hands uncontrollably. Asami just rolls her eyes, tunes out the ungodly amount of NSYNC and Mariah Carey Korra has on her iPod, and focuses on the sound of Korra’s breathing as she works. Before long, “changing Korra’s bike chain” turns into “pumping her tires,” “removing, cleaning, and replacing her pedals,” and “fixing that annoying squeak in the seat.” The work is so straightforward, so easy and familiar to her, and with warm oatmeal cookies in her stomach and Korra fidgeting over her and flitting in and out like an adorable, very buff fairy, Asami is sure she hasn’t felt this calm and content since the school year started.

The only other times Asami can recall ever feeling so settled and _happy_ are when she’s looking over a finally completed project design, or when she is alone in her personal workshop at Future Industries. But Hiroshi has been in town for the past long while, and her workshop never feels as private when she knows her father can waltz in whenever he pleases, and she’s been so busy with school that the last time she actually finished a design was probably during her summer job, months ago. She’s been stressed without her usual outlets.

_This_ is why she’s having so much fun fixing up a dirty old single-speed bike, she tries to tell herself. It has absolutely nothing to do with Korra— _Mako’s girlfriend,_ she reminds herself for the nineteenth time since they met—grinning beside her and fetching her snacks.

“Dang, Asami,” says Korra, looking up from the magazine article she’d been reading aloud (titled _“When You’re So Damn Pretty You Just Don’t Know What to Do with Yourself”_ ). She is lounging on an old lawn chair she’d dragged out from somewhere. “Are you Superman or something?”

Asami pulls the much-better-for-the-wear bicycle into an upright position. She grins at Korra. “I’d like to think I’m more of a cross between Iron Man and Batman, but less of an asshole.”

Korra smirks and lobs a cloth rag at her. “Well, you’ve got a little something on your face, asshole.”

She grabs the rag out of the air right before it smacks her in the nose, and childishly sticks her tongue out at Korra. Her face is streaked with grease, and her hands are evidently way worse, but she never feels more at home than when she’s like this.

“God, this stuff always makes me feel like a kid again,” she says, smiling down at her hands. “I mean, I live for R & D and whatever, but sometimes I miss just doing things with my hands, you know? Just working on a car or motorcycle or”—she glances at Korra, laughs—“or this hunk of junk. Without pressure.”

“Hey, only I get to call my ride a hunk of junk.” Korra’s teasing melts into a warm smile. “But that’s good. That’s really good. ‘Without pressure’ is good.”

“My dad used to let me into his workshop all the time when I was little.” Asami is suddenly very interested in staring at the brake she adjusted for Korra earlier. “I’d just jump in, make a mess, learn a lot. It drove my mother crazy because it was all so grimy and unsafe.”

She peeks down at Korra and she’s watching her, her expression startlingly soft. “Sounds like you had a blast,” she says gently.

“Yes. I loved it. I still do—love messing around, I mean.”

“That’s cool,” she says, and then she’s right there and standing, silently taking the cloth rag still tangled in Asami’s hands. Asami hadn’t realized she was twisting it so tightly. She relaxes as Korra’s warm, rough fingers brush briefly over hers. With very deliberate movements, Korra tosses the dirty rag into the chair, and balls up her hoodie sleeve in her hand. Standing on slight tiptoe because Asami is taller and they’re still at arm’s length from each other, she leans forward and carefully dabs at Asami’s forehead.

“You missed a spot,” she explains, pulling back.

“Oh. Thanks,” says Asami.

Korra smiles her crooked smile, and then they’re both looking at the platter of cookies still uneaten and everything all of a sudden is back to normal—only Asami’s not so calm and peaceful anymore.

-

Asami makes an honest effort to move on. She really does.

She promised Bolin, after all, and she promised herself, and (implicitly) she promised Mako that she wouldn’t steal Mako’s girlfriend. Like, that’s sort of just common courtesy when it comes to dealing with your ex-boyfriend-slash-close-friend, right? So Asami tries to move on.

Embarrassingly enough, Mako was Asami’s longest and most recent relationship. They dated for eleven months, and have been broken up for over a year. Asami’s had casual hookups and dates since then, but in all honesty, she’s _busy._ She is married to her course on fracture analysis and to the half-finished blueprints and schematics on her desk.

But Asami tries, for the sake of Mako and Korra. She gets the number of the night-shift library assistant who brought Asami a cup of hot chocolate when he noticed her studying until 4 AM five nights in a row; she flirts with the barista who accidentally spelled her name “Assami” on her coffee cup; she does turn down Wu, a dorky freshman Mako’s tutoring, but she actually honestly considers him an option for half a second because she is _that_ desperate to get Korra’s dazzling light out of her head.

“How was your date last night?” asks Mako without looking up from his laptop. He’s working on a paper (due weeks from now, the nerd), Bolin is sprawled out on the couch eating takeout noodles and texting Opal entirely in emojis, and Korra and Asami are playing a game of chess on the floor.

Korra fumbles and drops the pawn she was about to move, displacing half the pieces on the chessboard. “Crap,” she mutters. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” says Asami, helping her restore the board. She looks up at Mako and shrugs. “And I dunno, it was okay. I mean, Liang was okay but she… She kind of wanted more, you know?”

“What, sex?”

“No, like a committed relationship.”

“Bro, don’t say the _s-_ word in the same room as me,” complains Bolin.

“Yeah, Mako,” agrees Korra absently. “I mean you’re kind of like his mom, so that’s pretty weird.”

“I can’t believe my girlfriend just prohibited me from saying ‘sex.’ And called me a mom.” He doesn’t sound overly offended.

“Mm, you are kind of like a mom, though,” says Asami, capturing Korra’s rook as she speaks. “I mean, all you cook is suburban white mom food.”

“Yo,” Bolin pipes up, “his teriyaki is _really_ good. And he makes the fluffiest, prettiest fried rice.”

“So, culturally diverse mom, then.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Mako. “You’re just diverting from the fact that your date sucked.”

“It didn’t suck,” she insists. “I mean, we hooked up afterwards, and that was fun. But just not… it didn’t feel right, you know? And you know I’m not even that big a fan of sex, or instant commitment, and Liang _is_ , of both and…” Asami shrugs again, and pokes Korra in the knee. “By the way, it’s your turn. Earth to Korra?”

“Oh! ...Sorry.”

“So, then why the heck do you even go on dates?” Bolin asks.

Mako leans back from his computer to grin at them. “Oh, Asami Sato may like to think she’s some notorious player, but—”

“—in the end she just craves emotional intimacy!” realizes Bolin, delighted. “Aww.”

“Oh my god,” she groans. “Shut up.”

As Bolin clutches his heart and Mako smiles (half fond and half apologetic) at her, Asami captures Korra’s knight and guesses she’s about two moves from a checkmate.

“You’re kind of bad at this game.” she remarks.

“Yeah,” mutters Korra.

-

Three different dates with three different people all end with Asami cutting it off way too early, riding her motorcycle to Bolin’s apartment, and calling Korra on her cell after Bolin conks out in the middle of a movie. She watches the TV cast the room in weird eerie light as she rambles for way too long about hydraulics and aircraft engines and Korra hums and laughs on the other end of the line like she’s actually almost interested. She counts Korra’s breaths on the phone and stares at the dot pattern on the ceiling while Korra wades through her anthropology readings, and she doesn’t think about Mako soundly asleep in the next room or her stack of physics assignments sitting at home. She smiles to herself when Korra laughs, when Korra’s quiet, when Korra dozes off, and when she finally falls asleep with her head against Bolin’s steady shoulder.

In conclusion, the “casual dating to distract herself” thing is really not going so well.

-

“I think we’re losing each other,” says Mako. “Korra and I.”

_This is way too heavy for OxiClean_ , is Asami’s first thought.

“What?” she says aloud. She shuts off the tap, the bowl in her hand _plip-plop_ ping water into the sink.

Mako shrugs, keeps scrubbing away at his plate like this conversation is normal, totally casual. “I don’t know. We don’t—I dunno.” He looks her in the eye, then, and he doesn’t seem upset and that soothes her (she can read him, she’ll always be able to read him, she’s not sure what to do if someday she won’t have him figured out). “Forget I said anything,” he says.

She hesitates. “Okay,” she says finally, and feels a little horrible.

He doesn’t bring it up again, and he and Korra smile just as effortlessly and as often as they always do.

-

She is sorting her recyclables at 2:30 AM on a Friday morning when the realization strikes her. The Tropicana bottle slips from her hand into the plastics bin, and she calls Bolin without thinking. Her breaths are even and measured.

“Asami? What’s up?”

“Sorry,” she says. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah. I just got home from a run.”

Only Bolin and one other person she knows would say something like that at 2 in the morning. _Damn._ Even now, her thoughts are so painfully predictable.

“I’m in love with Korra,” she tells him.

“Nice,” is all he says.

“I realized it as I was sorting my recyclables.” She lets out a long breath. “I just had this empty bottle of Tropicana in my hand, and then, like, you know who likes orange juice? She does.”

“Mm, classy,” says Bolin. “I like orange juice too, you know. Hey, _you_ like orange juice. Mako’s not a big fan, though—”

“Bolin! We all love orange juice, yes, but thinking of Korra liking orange juice just made me so happy, like, I’m so happy that she derives joy from orange juice and that she’s getting her recommended daily intake of vitamin C because that’s very important! Its importance is often understated but like you said, Korra is fit, so I’m happy that she’s healthy, and drinking enough orange juice. A lot of orange juice.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. You okay?”

“None of that is how I know I’m in love with her,” she quickly clarifies. “But yeah. I’m in love with her.”

“Nice,” he says again.

Asami rubs her temple and takes a deep breath. “Ugh.” She breathes out. “Why can’t I just have stupid little crushes like a normal person?”

“Because you’re Asami Sato,” he says wisely, “and Asami Sato never does things half-assed.”

-

Asami Sato is screwed, but she decides that’s okay.

Until.

-

“Mako and I broke up.”

The news comes abruptly, in Korra’s living room on a rainy November evening. Asami grabs the remote, mutes the action movie playing out across the TV screen. Korra shifts her position on the couch so her leg is touching Asami’s.

Asami lays a gentle, hesitant hand on her knee. “You okay?”

Korra sucks in a slow, deep breath. And nods, a small shrug in her shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah.” She shrugs, a real one this time. “We like each other way more as friends.”

Asami nods. She understands. She had expected to be flooded with guilt, or maybe a sick excitement, if (when) the breakup happened, but she’s surprised at how calm and light she feels. Korra isn’t lying—she _is_ fine. Mako is fine. Asami is only glad that both of her friends are happy.

“It was a mutual decision,” Korra is saying, fingers still and loose—relaxed—around her glass of orange juice. “Besides, we both—by the end, both of us were just focused on… on other things.”

And if Korra meets her eyes for a moment too long, Asami does her best to pretend not to notice.

-

“This juice is really good,” Korra murmurs. It is 1:22 AM.

Asami swallows. “Uh-huh.”

 


End file.
